She stared at the ceiling. Quinnlash. Sink. Never. The same voice was there. It was always there.

She shook her head. No. No. She had too much to think about. Barely five seconds out of sleep, and nerves were already digging hooks into her skin. Besca said that today was going to be hard. Really hard. She didn't know why. 

She stood, doing her best to do so without wincing or stumbling. She didn't want to make noise. She didn't want to wake Deelie. The gash in her heart felt a little better. And a little worse. Looking down at herself, she smoothed the hospital gown, plucked at it. Besca said she was going to get new clothes, right? She needed new clothes. 

The nerves kept gnawing. She reached behind her and felt around a little. Little metal plugs, gaps in her spine, trailing up her neck and down her back. It didn't feel good. It didn't feel okay. She shouldn't be able to put a finger into the back of her head like that. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. She walked over—a little easier, she felt a little bit better—to the door, placing a hand on it.

A moment passed. She dropped her hand, staring. She had just woken up, and she was...supposed to push open the door, and just walk out. She tightened her jaw. It didn't feel right. It just didn't—it felt off. She opened her mouth. [i]Besca, can...you open the door for me?[/i] She shook her head. She was going to be a pilot. Doctor Follen called her brave. She needed to be brave. She needed to open the door. She lifted her hand again, hovering there, not quite daring to touch it.

She pushed.

The door swung open quietly, and she resisted the urge to jump back from it. Her face stayed writ with trepidation that rapidly leaked away as she stepped out. Her hand stayed up. 

Then she lifted it in an awkward wave at Besca, who was moving fluidly through the kitchen. Her voice was quiet when she spoke, but not as hoarse, and her throat didn't feel as ragged.

"[color=FFE63D]Good morning...[/color]"